“It’s lucky we helped that doctor when he set Pete’s leg at Bryant’s mill,” he said. “Can you wait a few minutes?”
Vane’s face was beaded with damp now, but he tried to smile. “It strikes me,” he answered, “I’ll have to wait a mighty long time.”
Carroll turned and left him. He was afraid to stand still and think, but action was a relief. It was some time before he returned with several strips of fabric cut from the tent curtain, and the neatest splints he could extemporise from slabs of stripped-off bark, and the next half-hour was a trying one to both of them. Sometimes Vane assisted him with suggestions—once he reviled his clumsiness—and sometimes he lay silent with his face awry and his lips tight set; but at length it was done, and Carroll stood up, breathing hard.
“I’ll fasten you on to a couple of skids and pull you out,” he said. “Then I’ll make camp.”
He managed it with difficulty, pitched the tent above Vane, whom he covered with their blankets, and made a fire outside.
“Are you comfortable now?” he inquired.
Vane looked up at him with a somewhat ghastly grin. “I suppose I’m about as comfortable as could be expected. Anyhow, I’ve got to get used to the thing. Six weeks is the shortest limit, isn’t it?”
Carroll confessed that he did not know, and presently Vane resumed: “It’s lucky that the winters aren’t often very cold so near the coast.”
The temperature struck Carroll as low enough, but he made no answer. To his disgust, he could think of no cheering observation, for there was no doubt that the situation was serious. They were cut off from the sloop by leagues of tangled forest which a vigorous man would find it difficult to traverse, and it would be weeks before Vane could use his leg; no human assistance could be looked for, and they had only a small quantity of provisions left. Besides this, it would not be easy to keep the sufferer warm in rigorous weather.
“I’ll make supper. You’ll feel better afterwards,” he said at length.